


I Killed the President of Paraguay with a Fork

by DeliberateMisspelling



Series: Black Humor [1]
Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliberateMisspelling/pseuds/DeliberateMisspelling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike is happy to play the puppy at work, but outside his hours at Pearson-Hardman he's distinctly less amiable. When the clean cut world of corporate law clashes with Mike's other "job," he's forced into a situation he never saw coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Killed the President of Paraguay with a Fork

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [ this prompt](http://suits-meme.livejournal.com/10789.html?thread=3648293#t3648293) on the meme. Slightly edited, but un-beta'd.

“You’re late.”

Ron is surprised, because the lithe blonde he knows only by a cell phone number that changes every few weeks and a bank account number buried deep in Lichtenstein is never late. Ron might even be more put off by the suit the kid’s got on.

“Somebody die?”

The joke doesn’t land.

“Dossier,” the other man demands with a casual arrogance Ron hasn’t experienced before either. Slim fingers clench around the sleek black leather of the portfolio Ron’s already holding out, and the grip betrays a strength Ron had not seen hidden in those skinny arms. He’d always assumed the man across the dimly lit table was more of a stealth and surprise type.

Well, the kid’s just full of surprise today.

“The usual amount?” The casual arrogance is still there, but Ron’s been doing this for too long not to notice the slight tenseness that appears at the corner of the other man’s mouth when he flicks the dossier open.

Ron shakes his head warily.

“The guy’s high profile, and I’ll tell ya kid... The pockets behind this one are deep. They’re offering another fifty on top of the standard. You could probably get more,” Ron offers honestly, and the tenseness becomes a sinister half-smirk.

“Naturally, your cut would increase exponentially.”

“Naturally.”

The kid rolls his eyes, which somehow Ron finds comforting, because at least that’s typical for him, and stands to leave.

“All right Ronny,” he taps the portfolio absently on the table, as if he’s considering something. Ron is suddenly not feeling so comfortable.

“You waive your fee on the next one,” There is a vice grip on the back of Ron’s neck, another on his wrist and his face meets the tabletop rather rudely while his arm is twisted around his back, “And I won’t end your life right here for trying to hire me to kill Harvey Specter.”

“Who found you, Ron?” It’s a simple question, but it’s going to be tricky for Ron to answer.

He splutters against the slightly sticky wood and tries to fight the air back into his lungs.

“I don’t know!” he manages, when the fingers on his neck only tighten against his struggle.

“Bullshit,” is hissed directly into his ear while his wrist is yanked somewhere up in the vicinity of his shoulder blades.

“Fuck,” Ron gasps, “I met an intermediary. A lawyer, he said. We didn’t exactly exchange business cards, you know? These people find me to find the likes of you, not to put me on their Christmas card list!”

The voice in his ear actually chuckles. It’s then and there that Ron decides to lose the next phone number that finds its way into his post office box, because contract killer or not, this kid is _crazy_.

“I suppose you’re right, Ronald. You let your intermediary know I’ll pass on the job. Since you’re being so honest and cooperative I really hate to do this to you, but I definitely can’t have you following me out of here.”

Ron doesn’t even make a sound when 200,000 volts hit his ribs. It’s more of a silent scream. The kid is long gone before he can think about moving again, and for that Ron is grateful.

 

* * *

  
Mike is learning all sorts of things about Harvey that he probably isn’t supposed to know. The dossier includes a briefly summarized but enlightening medial history, several sealed misdemeanor offenses from Harvey’s apparently wayward youth, a list of all living relatives and their current locations, occupations, and martial statuses. The fact that Mike knows where Harvey’s mother is, and Harvey probably doesn’t makes his gut twist a little.

The fact that his gut is twisting at all is revolting to Mike on a purely intellectual level. Seriously though. Ew. He squirms a little in his seat, and turns his attention back to the file.

The surveillance photos he finds next make his heart go still, because Jesus fucking Christ he’s been cropped out of several of them. Damn it all if he isn’t going to have to kill Ron. Even if he hasn’t seen the original photos, it’s too close for comfort. Too bad, really. The Christmas card crack was pretty funny, considering the circumstances.

Mike’s heart has only started beating again when he realizes a lot of the photos have been taken from outside both Harvey’s office and his apartment with a telephoto lens. Harvey’s office and condo, both of which have floor to ceiling windows and are surrounded by other high rises, which make them prime targets for sniper fire.

The sheer, blind panic he can taste on the back of his tongue lasts only for a moment. Mike blinks down at the photos and remembers nobody knows he said no yet.

All he has to do is figure out who hired some lawyer who hired Ron to try to hire him to kill Harvey before Ron tells the lawyer who tells his client that he said no, before said client hires another hit man. If the middle man is even actually a lawyer.

Easy.

Mike tugs his fingers through his hair and ambles towards the fridge for a Red Bull.

 

* * *

 

He starts a list. Granted, it’s not a very long list, and undoubtedly not a complete one, but a list nonetheless.

Daniel Hardman. Would the former Managing Partner stoop so low? Mike wouldn’t put it past him, and he’s certainly got the money to pay Mike’s fee, plus another fifty grand.

Cameron Dennis. Again, he’d definitely do it if provoked. It wasn’t really Harvey that screwed him in the end, though, and considering his current hot water situation with the Attorney General’s office it seems unlikely.

Travis Tanner. Probably more interested in finally besting Harvey in court, which of course Mike would never let happen. The guy’s an ass, but he gets his kicks from public humiliation, not murder for hire.

Louis Litt. Mike just laughs at himself and scribbles the name out.

Three people barely makes a list. Even with a perfect recall of all the ins and outs of Harvey’s former Pearson-Hardman clients, Mike can’t think of anyone else irate and/or crazy enough to want Harvey dead.

Of course, there are the thousands of criminals Harvey put away as a prosecutor. Cases that happened in a time before Mike Ross. Mike and Westlaw are about to become thoroughly reacquainted.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s actually pretty simple, once Mike has it figured out. In 2002, Harvey put a Russian mob boss by the name of Mikhail Strekalov behind bars for life for an almost innumerable amount of crimes, though murder topped the list. Strekalov had a daughter, Malvina, who is, as far as Mike could gather from newspaper archives, a chip off the old block.

In fact, after her father was imprisoned it seemed she’d taken over his business operations with a certain vicious streak even her fingernail pulling father might wince at. Or, he would’ve winced before somebody shivved him in the showers and he died of an infection in the prison hospital. Malvina Strekalov had also attended business school with one George McMahon, whose ex-wife is one Millie Cranston-McMahon, sister of one Ronald Cranston. May he rest in peace.

Simple.

Only, it took Mike two straight days to figure this all out in between running interference on Harvey’s case, offing Ron, and trying to surreptitiously make sure Harvey didn’t get shot in the meantime.

He’s overtired, jumpy, maybe a little bit off his game, and Harvey is currently standing in front of the windows of his office, doing that pensive, manly, King of the Concrete Jungle staring thing he does.

Mike is about to open his mouth to snap at Harvey to get away from the goddamn window, for Christ’s sake, when Harvey finally speaks.

“Let’s get lunch.”

Mike wants to gawk at him, because apparently it took twenty minutes of staring at the Manhattan skyline just for Harvey to come to the conclusion that he’s _hungry_ , but there’s no time because Mike is hungry too and Harvey is already out the door of his office.

It’ll be easier for Mike to see somebody coming on the street anyway.

 

* * *

 

The first time it’s a car back firing, and Mike almost drops his hot dog. Harvey arches an eyebrow but says nothing. Mike coughs a little, and sheepishly turns his attention back to his food. Until somebody slams a car door five feet up the block and his head pops up like a gophers, that is.

“What’s the matter with you?” Harvey asks in an all suffering voice, “Too much Red Bull?”

“Yeah,” Mike answers distractedly; he is too busy scanning the plaza for red flags, “That must be it.”

The words are out of his mouth before he realizes what he’s said, and in the time it takes him to turn the answer over in his head he can feel Harvey’s eyes boring into the back of his skull.

“Mike,” Harvey says in a way that suggest he knows Mike has done something terribly wrong, he just doesn’t know what yet, “What’s going on?”

“It’s really nothing,” Mike lies, shooting his napkin into a nearby trashcan, “I passed an old acquaintance on my bike this morning. He didn’t even recognize me, I’m sure it was a coincidence.”

Of course, falsely telling Harvey there might be another potential landmine lurking in his near future wouldn’t be a very good course of action even if Harvey believed a syllable of it.

“Uh-huh.”

Goddamn it. It’s downright dangerous for _anybody_ to be able to read Mike so easily, let alone somebody walking around oblivious to the target on their back. Mike keeps his expression carefully blank as Harvey continues to silently appraise him, which he knows is a dead giveaway, but he hasn’t got a better idea. Mike needs this day to be over, about five minutes ago. He has a fierce, mentally unstable, mobbed up Russian broad to track down.

Harvey goes to the gym. Mike kills people. It’s a perfectly legitimate form of stress relief, and this bitch is working his last nerve.

Mike decides not to analyze the fact that his previous form of fulltime employment has apparently become a hobby where he plays superhero. And Harvey thinks he’s Batman in this situation.

Harvey really does apparently enjoy watching Mike squirm, because what he finally says is “Let’s go back to work.”  
Mike has never appreciated him more, and he’s not going to analyze that either.

 

* * *

 

Mike’s out in Brighton Beach just after midnight, standing on the corner of a block filled with modest middle class homes. The lights finally go off inside the house he’s been watching, across the street two doors up, and he ambles toward it with hands shoved into the pockets of his black canvas jacket.

Picking the lock on the back door is child’s play, but everything he’s learned about Malvina Strekalov in the last two days make him step very carefully over the trip wire pulled between the corner of the kitchen counter and the wall.

Strekalov’s German Shepherd barely gets out a growl before Mike puts a bullet in its head. He winces at the bleeding form on the floor as he moves towards the stairs. Killing animals has always been harder, but he really does not have time to put a sleeper hold on a hundred and ten pound face ripping machine right now.

Mike’s not the least bit surprised when an aluminum Louisville Slugger comes flying at his head when he hits the landing. He ducks like he’s bored, and the blow knocks easily through the drywall. While Malvina is yanking her weapon free, swearing colorfully at him in Russian, Mike wraps her waist length hair around his forearm and jerks.

She flies off her feet and he considers tossing her down the stairs, just because. Her wailing makes him reconsider, and instead he whips the silencer at the end of the .45’s muzzle across her cheek. She cries out once, hisses and then falls silent. Malvina satisfies herself by glaring up at him as he tucks the bloodied weapon snugly underneath her chin.

“Harvey Specter says hello.” Yes it’s a little ( _a lot_ ) cliché, but what else is Mike supposed to say, exactly? This is _for_ Harvey. Besides she totally started it, and she’s only getting what’s coming to her anyway, one way or another.

Mike is a little surprised when she starts to chuckle.

“I knew when that Jew lawyer told me you’d turned the job down you’d be trouble,” she grins at him with blood blackened teeth, “So I set the contingency plan in motion right away.”

Mike’s stomach is leaden when he pulls the trigger, and it’s got nothing to do with the brain matter on the carpet. But Mike Ross does not lose his shit, despite what Harvey Specter might think, and he pads back down the stairs careful not to step in any blood. Mike hops over the tripwire as quick as he dares, relocks the door on his way out, and heads at a distinctly relaxed pace for the boardwalk.

Once his gun and gloves have been submerged suitably far out in the Atlantic, Mike fumbles for his phone and searches for cab at a slightly higher rate of speed.  
“Come on Harvey,” Mike tumbles into the back of a cab and ignores the cabby’s grumbling at the midtown address, “Pick up the fucking phone.”

By the third call, Mike is getting desperate and the cabby is eyeing him suspiciously in the rearview.

“Pick up the fucking phone, Goddamn it, Harvey, where the hell are you? You better be okay, I swear to fucking God, I’ll-”

“Mike.”

It takes Harvey’s definitely not amused voice cutting him off for Mike to realize the ringing at the other end of the line has stopped.

“Harvey! Where are-”

“It’s one in the morning, what the hell do you want?” Harvey snaps, “If you’re drunk or stoned, I swear to God you’re fired.”

“I’m not!” Mike protests automatically, “Where are you?”

“It’s one in the morning,” Harvey repeats, somehow managing to sound even more irritated, “Where the fuck do you think I am?”

“Do you have company?” Mike asks, because he has no idea what Malvina’s contingency plan was, but if she knows anything about Harvey she knows he’ll go for a tall brunette in a tight dress.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no,” Harvey huffs, and despite himself he’s starting to sound a little concerned. Mike starts to wonder if maybe the almost frightened looks the cabby is still throwing him are justified.

“Turn all the lights off, draw the curtains over the windows, and deadbolt the door. Don’t look through the peephole if there’s a knock, and don’t open it for anybody but me,” Mike orders, and Harvey laughs. It’s a cold sound that makes Mike’s brow furrow.

“What the hell is going on, Mike? It’s a little late for a practical joke. Don’t come over here,” Harvey adds the last part as an afterthought.

“I’m already on my way. I’m serious, Harvey, this is important. You just have to trust me on this, okay? Close the curtains and stay away from the windows.”

“How will I know it’s you?”

“Huh?”

“If I’m not supposed use the peephole or to open the door for anybody but you, how will I know it’s you?” Harvey clarifies, and a knot Mike didn’t know had formed his stomach loosens a little.

“Two bits,” he answers, and hangs up.

 

* * *

 

 

Mike knocks “Shave and a Haircut” onto Harvey’s front door four times before it opens.

“Just what the hell is going on here, Mike?” Harvey grumbles, though he looks too tired to be all that upset about the intrusion. Mike resists the sudden urge to fix Harvey’s hair, which is looking a little less the coiffed, and simultaneously wonders just _what_ the Hell _is_ going on here.

“Somebody’s trying to kill you.” Mike decided about halfway through the cab ride that blunt was the only way to get through this.

Harvey blinks.

“Who?”

Mike’s not sure that he likes that Harvey isn’t surprised.

“I’m not sure, exactly. Somebody Malvina Strekalov hired as a back-up plan,” Mike answers distractedly; he’s too busy rummaging through Harvey’s closet for an overnight bag.

“Get out of there,” Harvey grasps him by the collar and drags him back out into the living room to throw him into a seat on the couch, “Explain yourself. Thoroughly.”

“Malvina Strekalov hired somebody to kill you,” Mike repeats, like that’s explanation enough. He can’t look Harvey in the eye, entirely, and instead settles on watching the fingers he’s drumming on his knee.

“And how exactly do you know this?” Harvey questions, crashing into the seat beside Mike. He is way too goddamn tired for Mike to be being this font of evasive information.

Blunt, Mike reminds himself.

“Because she tried to hire me first. I didn’t take it well.”

Harvey is quiet for a long, long time.

“The Russian mob approached you in an attempt to hire you to assassinate me? I... Why didn’t I know about this the minute it happened? We should’ve gone to the police, Stekalov belongs behind bars just like her father! ” Harvey’s on his feet again, and he’s wide awake now, glaring down at Mike. Mike shifts uncomfortably and his knee is going to have bruises from the incessant tapping.

“It’s not exactly like that,” Mike mumbles, “The cops weren’t really an option.”

“How many times am I going to have to explain that when somebody has a gun to your head, _or mine_ , there’s always 146 other options? Jesus Christ, Mike, stop!”

Harvey reaches down and grasps Mike’s fingers tight enough to make his knuckles creak.

“They didn’t come to be because they thought they could manipulate and/or threaten your dimwitted associate into killing you, Harvey. They tried to _hire me_ ,” Mike offers, hoping that Harvey isn’t really going to make him say it, because everything is downhill after that.

“How is buying you off not manipulating you into-”

Sometimes Mike wonders if Harvey is purposefully missing the point. This is one of those times, and he’s had enough. It’s late, he had to toss his favorite gun, and somewhere in the city there’s a killer looking for Harvey. They don’t have time for this.

“To date I’ve killed thirty four people, Harvey. They tried to hire me because that’s sort of what I do. It’s what I did. I mean I still... Never mind,” Mike chuckles a little and changes tact, “They didn’t know I even knew you, let alone that I work for you. You weren’t ever supposed to find out.”

For a minute Mike is positive Harvey’s going to punch him. Only, his face goes slack instead and Mike’s hand slips out of his hold as he takes two steps back and that is so, _so_ much worse than a roundhouse to the jaw.

“Harvey,” Mike tries, but the older man holds up a hand to silence him and Mike obeys. It’s the least he can do right now, really.

Harvey’s been quiet going on five minutes, just staring at Mike, and they really don’t have time for this anymore.

“I know it’s a bit of a shock, Harvey, but we really can’t stay here. Go pack a bag, we have to-”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Harvey growls, finally startled out of his reverie, “I’m calling the police.”

Harvey pulls his phone from the pocket of his sweats and starts to dial.

“No you’re not,” Mike challenges quietly, and Harvey’s eyebrows raise as he pauses.

“Oh? Are you going to stop me?” Harvey asks in a tone that suggests maybe he hopes Mike will try.

“Of course not,” Mike retorts, offended, “But you’re not going to. I’ll go to prison, and you’ll be dead way before they figure out who’s after you. Hell, if we stay here much longer we’ll probably both be dead either way. Screw it, call ‘em.”

Mike knows Harvey, and he knows that when given a direct order Harvey will do everything in his power to achieve his goal without actually obeying. At this point, it doesn’t matter much to Mike that the goal is him ending up in prison, so long as Harvey’s alive to put him there.

At this point, Mike has also given up pretending that his feelings for Harvey are either nonexistent, inconsequential, or irrelevant. Not that he’s going to tell Harvey that though, obviously.

“All right,” Harvey concedes, and his phone disappears back into his pocket, “Where are we going?”

 

* * *

 

They’re back at Mike’s just after 3 a.m. and Harvey is grouching something about cheap cotton into Mike’s pillow when there’s a knock at the door.

Mike sits bolt upright from his spot on the couch as Harvey hisses “Oh yeah, let’s go to Mike’s tiny apartment in a shitty neighborhood, nothing bad will ever happen there.”

“Shut up, get behind the bed,” Mike shushes back as he throws a couch cushion in Harvey’s general direction and surfaces with a small pistol against his thigh.

“Don’t-” Harvey starts as he slips off the far side of the mattress, but it’s too late because Mike’s got the door open already.

“Hey, buddy!”

Mike definitely should’ve killed Trevor when he had the chance, because of course Malvina’s back-up plan is Mike’s former partner. Contract killers under the guise of drug dealers. It would’ve made a great movie, ‘til Trevor set him up to kill a pair of undercover cops, and yeah, Mike definitely should’ve ended him for that.

“He’s not here, Trevor.”

“Bullshit, Mike,” Trevor drops the friendly act like a hot frying pan and attempts to shove his way into Mike’s apartment.

“I said he’s not here,” Mike pushes back, bracing himself in the doorway.

“And I said that’s bullshit. He’s not at his apartment, and if you’re not at the office he certainly isn’t, so he’s here.” Trevor gives up trying to force his way inside and instead uses his height advantage to scan Mike’s little apartment.

“He’s my boss, Trevor, not my boyfriend. He’s probably with a date or something, I don’t keep tabs on him,” Mike grumps as he lets his shoulders slump. Trevor pounces on the opportunity to shove inside, because he’s never been all that bright. Mike swings the door shut and steps behind him. He’s even got one arm up to wrap around Trevor’s throat when Harvey stands up.

“I take it you’re looking for me, then?” Harvey quips nonchalantly, because apparently Harvey’s dense enough to think that Trevor has really gotten inside against Mike’s will.

Mike’s only slightly more startled the Trevor, but it’s enough. There’s the muffled pop of a silenced automatic and Mike watches Harvey crumple jerkily, like a stuttering film on an old projector.

Trevor’s dead before he hits the floor, his head twisted at a grotesque angle.

“Harvey!” Mike scrambles over the bed feeling like his heart might simultaneously shrivel and explode. There’s blood in Harvey’s hair and Mike knows that later he’s going to spend a good long time tossing up everything he’s eaten in the last week.

“Harvey, are you all right?” Mike knows he’s not.

Mike pulls him up by his shoulders, fingers searching frantically for where the blood’s coming from, “Harvey!”

Mike cups Harvey’s face in his hands and realizes that Harvey’s staring at him wide-eyed and unblinking. Mike’s heart decides to go with exploding, pounding manically against his ribs.

“Are you all right?!” Mike shakes him a little, “Are you! All right?”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Harvey smiles languidly, tapping the graze by his temple with one finger.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Mike flings his arms around Harvey’s ribs, burying his face in his neck and inhaling deeply. Mike ignores the distinct burning in his eyes and focuses on the heartbeat he can feel pulsing against his cheek.

“Trevor’s a goddamn terrible shot, isn’t he?” Harvey questions casually, rubbing one hand absently up and down Mike’s back.

“He was,” Mike grunts, “Always handy with a ligature, but guns are flashy and Trevor likes flashy.”

“Liked,” Harvey amends for him, and Mike grunts again, wordlessly this time.

They stay like that for a while, until Mike realizes that the warm wetness on the side of his face and neck isn’t tears, it’s blood. Harvey’s blood. Shit.

“C’mon,” Mike pulls himself out of the circle of Harvey’s arms, because at some point he started clinging back, “You’re bleeding on me.”

Mike tugs Harvey to his feet, and he follows unprotestingly to the bathroom, stepping over Trevor’s body like a rolled up rug.

“You’re in shock,” Mike comments mildly as he dabs the still bleeding wound with antiseptic, “You’ll feel dazed and disoriented for a few hours but it should pass by morning.”

Mike applies a large band-aid to the cut and leads Harvey back to his bed.

“I’ll check that when you wake up, but you probably won’t need stitches. Try to get some sleep, okay? I’ll be back soon.”  
Harvey looks up at him like he hadn’t realized Mike was talking until he stopped.

“You’re going?” He grasps Mike’s wrist tightly, “Don’t.”

“I have to,” Mike jerks his head towards Trevor’s body, “He’ll start to decompose and you can never get that smell out. “

“Just call the police,” Harvey offers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “You killed him because he posed an immediate threat to both our lives.”

Mike chuckles a little and shakes his head.

“I was gonna have to kill him anyway, eventually. And I didn’t snap his neck because I was afraid for my life, or even yours. I killed him because I thought he killed you. Revenge, pure and simple. Besides, I try to keep the cops out of my life as much as possible,” Mike shrugs, and pries Harvey’s fingers off his wrist.

“You killed him for me.” It’s not a question, but it sounds an awful lot like Harvey doesn’t believe what he’s saying. Mike cradles Harvey’s jaw in his hands again, looking at him levelly.

“I killed Malvina Strekalov for you, too,” Mike decides to go for broke, since Harvey’s acute stress reaction will probably keep him from remembering anyway, “I’d do anything for you.”

The part that scares Mike isn’t the killing, it’s the part where “anything” means _anything_ , not just what he’s good at.

Because Harvey’s Harvey, even in the midst of emotional shock, he reads the fear on Mike’s face like everybody else reads the newspaper. He smiles a little and leans forward to kiss the corner of Mike’s mouth.

“Don’t be gone too long. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Usually Mike would just nod and start shoving Trevor’s body out the window onto the fire escape, but instead he changes his grip on Harvey’s jaw, tracing his thumb over his lower lip before kissing him fiercely.

“Promise me you won’t change your mind when you wake up in the morning not in shock, and I’m still a killer.”

“I won’t.”

It’s Harvey. Mike believes him.


End file.
